"... the best words in the best order."
- Samuel Taylor Coleridge
My Ode to the Oreo An ode to thee I sing...
With a glass of ice cold milk does your deliciousness reign.
Forever and you too belong together you belong it was a destined combination
Your velvety darkness with its cool likeness.
The crunchiness of your outer layer, the sweetness of what you have to bear....
In milk you seem to melt and in my heart you always have a place until you reach my stomach that is...
The oreo my love belongs to you and the milk which you belong.
To you oreo.
To you.
Brooke
When I see her I faint move and shake.
Yes her sweater is nice but she aint right.
I asked hre if she knew how to bake cakes.
She looked at me and gave me a great fright.
During the day she always smiles and laughs.
He braces shine with a brilliant gleam.
She frequently neglects to take a bath.
Twice a week i attempt to jump off beams.
She smells of awsome flowers from the wild.
Her pin curls fall freey from high above.
But she is my friend hopefully til the end.
I do take my time with her i doth spend.
A Faint Memory
Tick Tock
Tick Tock
the hours go by...
Tick Tock Tick Tock
My hand rubs the leather seat the sweat makes it difficult to gentle slide.
The smell of Dentist office is over whelming
My mouth is dry and I can taste the anticipation.
The doctor will see you now" the woman says.... A tear comes down my face.
My Poet: Pablo Neruda
I used to be a fan of poetry. But as I grew up I kinda let it go to pursue other things. To me Poetry is a way of release and relaxation and when I write poetry, I try to show that in my writing. I don't write poetry about bad thing such as things that are depressing or things that are over whelming. I try to stay on the basis of things that are pleasing, or things that are happy. I dont enjoy reading things that are sad and upsetting.
Love For This Book
by Pablo Neruda
Translated by Clark Zlotchew and Dennis Maloney
In these lonely regions I have been powerful
in the same way as a cheerful tool
or like untrammeled grass which lets loose its seed
or like a dog rolling around in the dew.
Matilde, time will pass wearing out and burning
another skin, other fingernails, other eyes, and then
the algae that lashed our wild rocks,
the waves that unceasingly construct their own whiteness,
all will be firm without us,
all will be ready for the new days,
which will not know our destiny.
What do we leave here but the lost cry
of the seabird, in the sand of winter, in the gusts of wind
that cut our faces and kept us
erect in the light of purity,
as in the heart of an illustrious star?
What do we leave, living like a nest
of surly birds, alive, among the thickets
or static, perched on the frigid cliffs?
So then, if living was nothing more than anticipating
the earth, this soil and its harshness,
deliver me, my love, from not doing my duty, and help me
return to my place beneath the hungry earth.
We asked the ocean for its rose,
its open star, its bitter contact,
and to the overburdened, to the fellow human being, to the wounded
we gave the freedom gathered in the wind.
It's late now. Perhaps
it was only a long day the color of honey and blue,
perhaps only a night, like the eyelid
of a grave look that encompassed
the measure of the sea that surrounded us,
and in this territory we found only a kiss,
only ungraspable love that will remain here
wandering among the sea foam and roots.
There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.
And there are corpses,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.
Sometimes I see alone
coffins under sail,
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
with bakers who are as white as angels,
and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
the river of dark purple,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.
Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no
finger in it,
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no
throat.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.
I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.
But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
death is inside the broom,
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
it is the needle of death looking for thread.
Death is inside the folding cots:
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.
III.
Tell me, is the rose naked
or is that her only dress?
Why do trees conceal
the splendor of their roots?
Who hears the regrets
of the thieving automobile?
Is there anything in the world sadder
than a train standing in the rain?
III.
Tell me, is the rose naked
or is that her only dress?
Why do trees conceal
the splendor of their roots?
Who hears the regrets
of the thieving automobile?
Is there anything in the world sadder
than a train standing in the rain?
- Pablo Neruda
" Book of Questions III"
In this poem, the poet asks 3 questions. In each he want to know why something is the way it is.
Stanza ones ask " is the rose naked or is that her only dress?"He wants more from the rose he wants to be told why she wears the same thing monotonously or does she have nothing to wear.
Stanza two ask" Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots?" He is curious as to why trees hide their beauty from the world.
Stanza 3 ask" who hears the regrets of the thieving automobile?" He wonders who is around to hear the regrets? Finally Stanza 4 " Is there anything sadder than
is there anything sadder than a train standing in the rain? He ask this figuritively. A train moves quickly and very swift. But, when it is still, it is out of wack and stationary which isnt what it is used to at all.
- Samuel Taylor Coleridge
My Ode to the Oreo
An ode to thee I sing...
With a glass of ice cold milk does your deliciousness reign.
Forever and you too belong together you belong it was a destined combination
Your velvety darkness with its cool likeness.
The crunchiness of your outer layer, the sweetness of what you have to bear....
In milk you seem to melt and in my heart you always have a place until you reach my stomach that is...
The oreo my love belongs to you and the milk which you belong.
To you oreo.
To you.
Brooke
When I see her I faint move and shake.
Yes her sweater is nice but she aint right.
I asked hre if she knew how to bake cakes.
She looked at me and gave me a great fright.
During the day she always smiles and laughs.
He braces shine with a brilliant gleam.
She frequently neglects to take a bath.
Twice a week i attempt to jump off beams.
She smells of awsome flowers from the wild.
Her pin curls fall freey from high above.
But she is my friend hopefully til the end.
I do take my time with her i doth spend.
A Faint Memory
Tick Tock
Tick Tock
the hours go by...
Tick Tock Tick Tock
My hand rubs the leather seat the sweat makes it difficult to gentle slide.
The smell of Dentist office is over whelming
My mouth is dry and I can taste the anticipation.
The doctor will see you now" the woman says.... A tear comes down my face.
My Poet: Pablo Neruda
I used to be a fan of poetry. But as I grew up I kinda let it go to pursue other things. To me Poetry is a way of release and relaxation and when I write poetry, I try to show that in my writing. I don't write poetry about bad thing such as things that are depressing or things that are over whelming. I try to stay on the basis of things that are pleasing, or things that are happy. I dont enjoy reading things that are sad and upsetting.
Translated by Clark Zlotchew and Dennis Maloney
Translated by Robert Bly
There are cemeteries that are lonely, graves full of bones that do not make a sound, the heart moving through a tunnel, in it darkness, darkness, darkness, like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves, as though we were drowning inside our hearts, as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul. And there are corpses, feet made of cold and sticky clay, death is inside the bones, like a barking where there are no dogs, coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere, growing in the damp air like tears of rain. Sometimes I see alone coffins under sail, embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair, with bakers who are as white as angels, and pensive young girls married to notary publics, caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead, the river of dark purple, moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death, filled by the sound of death which is silence. Death arrives among all that sound like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it, comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no finger in it, comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no throat. Nevertheless its steps can be heard and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree. I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see, but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets, of violets that are at home in the earth, because the face of death is green, and the look death gives is green, with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf and the somber color of embittered winter. But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom, lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies, death is inside the broom, the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses, it is the needle of death looking for thread. Death is inside the folding cots: it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses, in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out: it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets, and the beds go sailing toward a port where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.Translated by William O'Daly
Tell me, is the rose naked
or is that her only dress?
Why do trees conceal
the splendor of their roots?
Who hears the regrets
of the thieving automobile?
Is there anything in the world sadder
than a train standing in the rain?
- Pablo Neruda
" Book of Questions III"
In this poem, the poet asks 3 questions. In each he want to know why something is the way it is.
Stanza ones ask " is the rose naked or is that her only dress?"He wants more from the rose he wants to be told why she wears the same thing monotonously or does she have nothing to wear.
Stanza two ask" Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots?" He is curious as to why trees hide their beauty from the world.
Stanza 3 ask" who hears the regrets of the thieving automobile?" He wonders who is around to hear the regrets? Finally Stanza 4 " Is there anything sadder than
is there anything sadder than a train standing in the rain? He ask this figuritively. A train moves quickly and very swift. But, when it is still, it is out of wack and stationary which isnt what it is used to at all.